Healing Water

I’ve been drinking water; lots and lots of water. I have a one-half gallon filter carafe (Walgreen’s brand; paid $9.99 for it about a year ago) that gets filled twice a day because I’m drinking just shy of a gallon of water a day.

My body is responding to it with gratitude; skin less dry; hair less brittle; joints more supple. Water is amazing. Water is healing. For me, water isn’t just healing on the physical level; it’s incredibly healing on the emotional and spiritual levels, too.

When I was going through an extremely “rough patch” from 2003 through 2004, water was my refuge; the one thing (aside from my therapist) that could effectively center me for any length of time. I had found the perfect sit-spot overlooking the ocean, just south of Rye, where, on certain days, I could clearly make out the Isles of Shoals in the distance. But it was all about the water.

It didn’t matter if it was gray and menacing or sapphire blue and sparkling, gazing at and listening to that powerful element served to clear my mind and keep me present for however long I spent there. I can close my eyes right now and that seascape appears behind my closed lids; a moving picture of power and raw beauty; infinite and ever-changing.

In meditating (I have finally come to love and make judicious use of this practice), I will sometimes transport myself to an empty beach and imagine myself lying on the sand with the waves lapping first at my feet, then my legs, hips, torso, breasts, neck and, finally, head until I am floating; suspended in the gentle and insistent rocking of the waves. Magical. Powerful. Peaceful. Cleansing. Healing.

I had a soul reading (click on “soul reading” to book one) several months ago during which the Shaman who performed the reading stressed over and over again the importance of water to me; strongly suggested bathing in salt water and swimming in the ocean or floating on the ocean. She knew without knowing, if you know what I mean … I feel that’s one of the ocean’s strengths and one of its healing properties; it knows without knowing; it keeps secrets without ego. I’ll be back there again after Labor Day, filling my heart and soul with its healing.

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I was at the beach on Saturday (a rarity for me; as fair skinned as I am, I tend to avoid places with no shade, but we were down the Cape and there was the possibility of sea glass…). As I sat on a rock watching the girls play in the water, I started thinking that the ocean is a conundrum for me. I have always lived near the ocean and think of it as a necessary part of my emotional landscape, but I also find the constant motion to be unsettling. Sure, the steady rhythm of waves can be soothing, but I was struck, that afternoon, by the idea that it NEVER STOPS MOVING. I think part of my work this go around is to find stillness (so much so that I find myself annoyed by having to breathe sometimes). Perhaps, sometime not so long ago, I spent a lifetime on the ocean (or never being settled)? That would account for the barnacle-like tenacity with which I cling to my solid and stable.

My near-obsessive fascination with Titanic has something to do with a recent past, as well; which is why, I suspect, I'm not a fan of watery depths that don't allow me to see the bottom. I find solace in the ocean's vastness; the sense of a force far greater than me. I totally get the desire (or need) to find stillness. I am so loving meditating for that very reason.

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